Chapter 20: When They Recovered
Greg. Freya couldn't look at her interrogator anymore without hearing that one word, the condescendingly shortened name of Psych Ops Junior Director, in Merlin's voice. Even though he wasn't even in the same building, as far as she knew.
"How long have we been in here?" she asked without thinking.
JD Gregory leaned back from the table between them, solidly graying man with a solidly graying expression, and she felt the slightest twinge of regret for what he'd been through, this whole time. Then he said, too solicitously, "Do you need to take a break?"
And it hadn't been so long and she wasn't so very tired that she'd quit reading implications, quit playing the game. Psych Ops, after all, and if she wanted to… Did she want to, after all?
Did she need to pee. Did she feel like she couldn't handle pressure even from someone on her side, someone quite high up the chain of command, someone whose decisions might affect her safety, in more ways than one. And the duties of this assignment would be much different than regular military.
"I'm fine," she answered instinctively, rejecting admission of weakness. "It's just-"
Exhausting to repeat the story of their departure from Janada. Facts and impressions and conjecture, focus on Scout Pendragon, on Scout Thompson, on Second-sergeant Gwaine, on Scout Emrys-
Oh, is he a scout again? or still?
Exhausting to answer question after question regarding her service file – everything that was included, and everything that was left out. Exhausting to answer all the background inquisitiveness – not just fact, but what she said and how she said it would be analyzed and quantified and evaluated.
Can't this wait until… later? Til she'd had a chance to rest after deployment, after a mission gone so catastrophically wrong that Camelot's ambassadors were still discussing implications regarding international nondenominational. No, guess not. Because Psych Ops didn't coddle its scouts.
So did she actually want…
Did Gwaine actually want? She hadn't spoken to him all day, and the possibility had seemed so remote that they'd actually be offered a transfer, that he'd given only a noncommittal shrug.
If he stopped to really think about it, Freya was nearly certain he'd accept. Gwaine was an excellent second-sergeant in his care of his troops – but he did not thrive in conditions of rigid protocol or nonsensical orders from higher-ups. He had no patience with the waste of time or resources – she thought he'd do much better in a setting like Psych Ops, where he could make his own decisions and take his own risks, on a mission.
Did Merlin actually want… this. Him here, her here, them here together? Probably he was down another hall in another interrogation room – on another floor, another wing, another building altogether. Answering questions.
JD Gregory eyed her, waiting for her to finish her sentence. It was disconcerting how they did that – of course she knew whatever she chose to fill the silence with was inherently significant, but - I don't think she's cut out for this.
It felt late, and she was too tired; what came out of her mouth was the echo of his own thought.
"I don't think I'm cut out for this."
After a breathless moment of shocked silence, she let her body slump slightly in the uncomfortable plastic chair, because she knew someone important was observing from behind the mirror-window. Someone would observe something like this, and it wouldn't be some low-level clerk, after all – and she couldn't take the comment back. She swallowed, her mouth dry and her eyes wet.
And the hall door opened to reveal Director Richard Gaius himself, wearing two pieces of a three-piece suit in a distinguished almost-black blue. Expression neutral as he met Gregory's questioning glance.
"Might I have a word," Gaius told him.
JD Gregory rose immediately, positioning the chair for his superior to use. "Of course, sir."
Out the door, and close it behind him. Freya wasn't sure if she should feel more relaxed in Gaius' presence, or more tense.
Gaius settled, one eyebrow half-raised in mild contemplation of her – of all of her, at once. Her eyes, her expression, the set of her shoulders and the way her arms lay on the table like dead fish on a dock.
Merlin was important to him. And Arthur, and Gwen – maybe all of his scouts – but Merlin. And she was… someone else. Someone to be included, or not?
"That was his thought you spoke just now, not your own," Gaius remarked, stating a fact, not asking a question. Surely he was the observer hidden behind the mirror-window, and now they two were alone, and there was no danger of her blurting his thoughts.
"That's the way mine works," she told him, though he'd already known that. "It's harder to control when I'm… tired."
"Hm." That sound promised practice and training and development, should she and the Psych Ops department commit to one another.
But I can, she determined. I know I can. Realizing how much more Merlin had to control, and decide how to use, was definitely incentive. Whether Psych Ops committed to her, or not. And she rather thought Gaius – psychic himself, though no one would explain exactly how, and she hadn't dared to ask – understood that, of her.
"We have no reservations regarding your background," the Director added gently. "Your past, your family. Your time of service is exemplary."
But. Freya had no temptation to voice the unspoken. But…
"It has been expressed," Gaius continued in the same tone, like a physician giving terminal news. "The commitment to Psychological Operations should be given for the sake of the department's mission, motivated by loyalty and love for Camelot. Not for another person."
She knew that; she'd seen that; she'd learned that from Arthur, from Gwen, from Merlin. And yet…
"That is a man's perspective," she answered, also gently. "And quite correct. But women often dedicate service and loyalty and love for the sake of one man. And that is not incorrect."
Gaius rested against the back of his chair, his eyebrow climbing incrementally. "And if the one man proves faithless? Where then would your service and loyalties lie?"
"Oh, he won't." Freya was sure of that as her own name, as she was sure he knew exactly who she meant, and she gave the Old Man her fullest smile.
"He feels the same for you," Gaius stated, eyeing her another moment.
Had Merlin had said as much, or had Gaius read that, in him. It gave her a shiver through her core that was deliciously anticipatory. She knew where their relationship would go, and what would be shared between them, though they didn't have it yet and the path between then and now wasn't clear. Someday she'd give herself to him, and he'd give himself to her, fully and ecstatically.
But, shouldn't think about that while the psychic director of Psych Ops was studying her.
"Very well." Gaius grunted, and pushed his chair back to rise. "Welcome to Psych Ops, Scout Douglas. You can meet Scout Gwaine downstairs in the lounge for orientation."
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
The sun was low in the sky when Merlin's train pulled into the small country station. And, as it happened, the platform was built to the east of the tracks, so Merlin was able to observe the light-bathed stretch of waiting-room easily, while Arthur would have the sun in his eyes, watching the train slow to a halt for passengers to disembark.
He hadn't seen the scout in a week.
The other scout? his friend? In spite of the assurances of trust that had passed both ways, he wasn't yet sure.
Probably because of the way he'd been brought up.
To say nothing of the rocky path their relationship had taken, thus far.
Then again, considering how Arthur had been brought up, Merlin could do worse than follow his example, in trying and testing and trusting what they had and what they were making of it.
Even though that night at the museum had been the very opposite of careful and considered, in any interaction.
One week, for time to heal, to figure the official version of events, and decide upon everyone's status quo, and Merlin was very glad he wasn't in charge of any of that. He shifted on his seat, feeling the slim wallet in his back pocket and knowing his official ID was the most valuable item in it. Gaius was amazing; he wanted to be like Gaius when he grew up; he was a little afraid to want to be like Gaius when he grew up.
Arthur sprawled on the bench under a lengthy weather-canopy like he'd been waiting a while – Merlin hadn't made the earlier train like they'd originally planned – but was prepared to wait indefinitely with perfect equanimity. He eyed the train expectantly, up and down, leaning on one elbow on the bench's armrest, feet set and knees spread, then glanced away like something else had caught his attention.
He couldn't know Merlin was on this train, watching him from behind the sun-glare on the window, but seemed prepared to wait hours on the next – which wouldn't arrive til well after dinner-time – without worrying if Merlin had changed his mind. Or giving up on expecting his arrival.
It was a little too late for Merlin to change his mind, though.
Especially since it seemed Arthur had come alone from the estate to pick him up from the village station.
Merlin hitched the strap of his duffel to his shoulder, and turned to move down the aisle to the exit.
He'd repeated Arthur's offer to Freya as instructed – you too, if you want – but she'd demurred. Maybe next time. There was an aunt or second cousin or someone who lived in the capital where she could claim a guest-room for a long weekend of uninterrupted recovery. Silence, and no one asking any questions; he could relate to that desire, after a week like they'd had.
I'll read a book, she'd said.
And maybe he was the only one wondering if he could or should or would find her dreams, if they were hours apart in distance. The look in her eyes lately when they connected was… finite patience. Expectation delayed, but only for a time. It fired his blood and nerves and made him shiver, to remember.
Arthur didn't immediately notice him stepping onto the platform, still watching some obscure activity toward the front of the train, but when he turned his head and his eyes connected to Merlin's, a sideways smile twisted his mouth unreservedly, and he pushed to his feet.
Which in itself, answered some of Merlin's uncertainty about what are we, who are we.
"Took your time, didn't you," he said, gesturing an offer to carry Merlin's bag for him.
Merlin shrugged inoffensive refusal. It's my bag, not that heavy. And said nothing about second thoughts. "Greg wanted a quick word before I left."
"Let me guess – anything but quick?" Arthur said sardonically, leading Merlin down the stairs and through the small station.
Ticket-counter, closed for the night or maybe only for dinner, a few shops and vendor booths, tiled floor aged and sturdy in spite of cracks and chips.
Thought about coming here, once… loitering at the crossroads on a pretty-much-stolen Pendragon estate turf-bike.
Oh, he knows.
"How was the trip?" Arthur said. A breeze kicked up as they left the station and approached the estate truck Merlin recognized.
Merlin huffed, opening the passenger door with a crank and a squeak, then lobbed his bag to the middle of the bench seat. "It's… sometimes a little odd to me, yet, that I'm allowed to go places on my own."
"Huh." Arthur turned the ignition, cocking his head in consideration. "Well, you'll get used to it."
Another part of freedom and trust he was still mildly incredulous over.
He didn't say, Is this a do-over. He did suggest lightly, "Pizza and movie night?"
Arthur made a negative noise, attention on driving – Merlin flashed to the morning they'd met, to steal an Essetirian troop transport and drive it down the rail-track to the border, and it wasn't an uncomfortable memory. Or the day they'd rescued Hunith, and Arthur had been energy and determination, driving another stolen truck with one hand and shooting back at the Essetirians with the other.
"Barbeque," he said. "And beer. Unless you're a steak and red wine kind of guy." Flash of a grin; Arthur was confident of the answer but Merlin gave it anyway.
"No, I don't think so." He settled on the dusty upholstery, feeling a world of difference, how relaxed he could be with nothing between them, and how much easier it felt, like this. "Leon and Percival still there?"
"Til Monday," Arthur said. "Then it's back to work for all of us." Another glance, more inscrutable. "My father and my sister are still in residence."
"Ah." He should've asked, probably. Not because it made much of a difference to his acceptance of this second weekend invitation, but because it would've been polite. He asked awkwardly, "They're – well?"
"My father claims not to mind the decision to step down, since Psych Ops handled the consequences so smoothly," Arthur said dryly, slowing for the turn into the estate. "Docs checked him out. Physically. Mentally. He says Liam McEwan is a good man to take the helm of the government. He claims he's going to take up gardening." Arthur's mouth twisted. "I give it less than a month til he's meddling again."
Merlin didn't say anything, watching the vistas of the landscape open and disappear around the corners of the dirt road.
"And by that I mean, til he's counseling or consulting or contributing. Somehow. To someone influential." Another moment of consideration. "Probably multiple someones…"
"And your sister?" Merlin said. Because she had been genuinely upset that night at the hotel, he knew that much. And her roommate had been murdered. Had she been told her friend was responsible?
"Recuperating," Arthur enunciated noncommittally, eyes on the road.
Because, complicated. Hurt had been given and received, regrets acknowledged or denied, fault and blame and forgiveness and healing and concern expressed or rejected by turns.
"Takes a while," Merlin suggested casually – but oh-so-focused on the subtle hints of his companion's attitude and movement.
Because Morgana had been duped by an Essetirian psychic. Had subsequently introduced family – and thus, government and kingdom – to unimaginable risk. There were undeniable comparisons to be made, there, and Arthur was canny, as a scout.
But Morgause had forged full speed ahead to annihilate Camelot… whereas Merlin had sidestepped and backtracked and defected, to the best of his ability. He hadn't been focused on conning Arthur for years, not like Morgause had been focused on Morgana – who surely would be feeling at least some of what Arthur had felt, after Merlin's written confession.
Not your fault. But… yeah, kinda felt like it.
Arthur had immediately reacted to minimize the damage misplaced trust had caused, hunting down an enemy scout, to the point where Merlin still could feel the muzzle of his handgun against his scalp. Morgana hadn't been given the opportunity to make whatever amends she felt were necessary, as far as Merlin knew. Whether she'd take that opportunity or not…
And then there was the little matter of how Arthur had treated him at the hotel. Believing in his innocence, evidently, but acting like he didn't, and letting Merlin deploy to the sandbox like their enemies had succeeded…
Arthur filled his lungs and exhaled – and the gates of his psychic castle stood widely ajar. Merlin stood of his own choice to the side, close to the wall, and could see only a sliver of the interior, and believed the situation suited them both. Offer on the table. Acknowledged, appreciated. He didn't take advantage, and Arthur didn't retract.
He trusted Merlin too – a decision made in spite of past mistakes. The opportunity of amends, and more.
"I think she'd be better off going back to school," Arthur said, quietly blunt. And not reopening their own situation to discussion. "Instead of just sitting around the house."
Thinking, Merlin heard, and as clever and quick as Arthur was, Merlin understood his resistance to introspection. He would always want to act, not dwell.
"But no one wants my opinion," Arthur concluded, a little too casually, because Merlin could intuit, psychic or not, that he'd tried and had been rebuffed.
"I don't have a sibling," he offered. "But you and yours are very different-"
Arthur snorted and glanced out his side window, away from Merlin.
He persisted, "So there's bound to be some… disconnect. Just from that. Don't you think?"
"Disconnect," Arthur repeated softly, and made a thoughtful noise. And then they were slowing to turn in at the Pendragon estate entrance, gate also propped open – but probably not indefinitely.
He'd have to wait and see about the psychic gates in Arthur's mind-castle. And maybe not take it personally if he ever found them shut. Time, and patience. He was very new to the idea and practice of relationships, but maybe this was always how it worked.
Time, and patience.
He could do that with Freya, and with his mother. He could do that with Arthur.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Arthur kept Merlin in the corner of his eye as they rumbled and bumped up the track toward the house. The how-you-doin' nods as they passed each other in Psych Ops headquarter corridors, to and from meetings and debriefings, was professional. Not personal. They hadn't been alone, with no other company, since the night they'd spent crashing in post-mission exhaustion and adrenalin-drain at the safehouse in the capital.
The others had made him take one of the bedrooms. They'd voted, evidently, when he wasn't paying attention – which didn't bother him as it once might have. But he couldn't sleep, and a search for a well-enough-stocked medicine cabinet had him padding down the stairs in the small hours of the morning, distant streetlights reaching dim shadows through windows no one had bothered to shutter.
Gwaine on the couch, Merlin pretzeled into a recliner. And Arthur had paused on the edge of the area rug for reasons he couldn't now remember. Vague subconscious feelings of responsibility for a team he thought he'd never wanted, maybe.
Are you all right.
Merlin stirred and mumbled something into the cushion he'd jammed under his head. Gwaine must have been attuned to him – a damn good second-sergeant, then – and muttered something questioning. Arthur moved soundlessly onto the rug ready to intervene or assist-
"Downstairs bathroom," Merlin slurred, barely coherent. "Cabinet. Meramine."
Gwaine grunted something that could have been, Pendragon? or you want some? either-or.
"No'm good. F'r Ar…"
Thanks, mate. Arthur huffed a rueful amusement and stepped carefully toward the hall, trying not to disturb either of them more than he already had.
" 'Ny time," Merlin breathed, and Arthur left them to settle back to slumber.
The three soldiers had been gone from the premises when he finally woke, mid-morning and too warm under the sunlight spreading across the bedspread. He'd heard Gwen limping down the stairs on her own, cursing mildly and good-naturedly under her breath.
Of course the whole thing had sublayers and overtones and undercurrents and… complications.
Which was why he usually preferred quick and done. There and gone. Act, and avoid reflection unless it was absolutely necessary – and could be done in an objective, academic analysis aimed at perfecting technique for future attempts.
For a moment he considered whether that was because of the way he'd been raised. Interactions with staff in his childhood, imitating his father – interactions with his father – with school authorities. Report, emotionlessly; receive censure or praise unaffectedly. And guard against the incomprehensible risk of caring about anyone else. Father and sister were risk enough, all he could handle…
Or letting anyone else care about him.
Well, too late now – and, he realized belatedly, too late to discipline such thoughts while sitting at barely arms-length from a damn powerful psychic.
Merlin was still relaxed, when Arthur checked his peripheral. Slouched on the truck's bench seat in fraying jeans and his old CPU sweatshirt, knees casually fallen to the side, elbow propped on the door, watching Pendragon scenery pass out the side window.
You hear me, psychic?
"Only when you want me to," Merlin said aloud.
Oh. Well, then. That's all right…
And Merlin turned his head to grin, exactly as if he didn't notice that Arthur hadn't exactly voiced his comments.
Arthur pressed his answering smile away between his lips, and paid attention to pulling the truck around the side of the house. Merlin would be more comfortable entering through the back hall anyway.
He cut the engine; their doors creaked open more or less at the same time, and it took Merlin as long to sling the duffel over his shoulder as it took Arthur to round the bumper.
And then it was, Merlin keeping pace just beside and behind his right shoulder – oddly and exhilaratingly and frighteningly comfortable. One of these days he anticipated that Gaius was going to call them into a debriefing room, send them somewhere together…
"Kick your shoes off," Arthur ordered, striding across the tiled floor without doing so himself. "Don't track in dirt."
Merlin clumped along behind him, not even pausing to consider if Arthur was serious, and by the sound of his voice he was gazing upward through the massive stairwell to the skylights overhead. "D'you ever think about parachuting in here?"
Why? D'you wanna try? Arthur scoffed, "Course not, I'm afraid of heights." Looking over his shoulder as he paused at the entrance to the kitchen, he grinned right into the psychic's face. "I might fall."
The glimmer of reactionary amusement over a daringly inappropriate joke dropped from Merlin's expression, leaving trepidation and uncertainty behind even though he hadn't looked away from Arthur. A reaction not to Arthur's comment or the memory, but to a presence that he himself sensed.
Arthur turned, moving fluidly like potential-threat, around the corner of the nearest refrigerator. In the space of the second it took to move those three steps, he'd processed Merlin's reaction and the probability of what caused it, and after all wasn't surprised to see his father leaning against the counter, fingers curled around the handle of a mug. Exactly as if he'd been waiting there for Arthur's return ever since he left.
Almost three hours ago.
Uther was unsurprised to see Merlin trailing after him – because the psychic wouldn't turn and bolt, no matter how he felt – and wholly unimpressed.
Nothing unusual there, then.
Arthur defaulted immediately to, report. "Father. Leon and Percival should be outside at the grill by now, and-" quick glance to the timekeeper on the wall – "we should be on schedule for dinner at-"
Uther cleared his throat, affecting silence. "Arthur. I trust you have dinner well in hand, whether you're physically present or not."
Why was it he always heard disapproval?
"Emrys," his father continued heavily, expressionless gaze on Merlin. "Isn't it."
Arthur shifted his weight without thinking about it, to place himself between his father and his friend, and kept his tone even and deferential. "I told you that I was inviting Emrys this weekend and that he might-"
Merlin didn't touch him, but Arthur felt his friend move out from behind him.
I know. I get it – you, him, me – but you don't have to.
Uther stepped across the kitchen to them, and Arthur didn't have a word to offer in defense or deflection. His father had been briefed however exhaustively by Gaius – had made comm-block connections with various authorities in the capital – and had called Arthur to his office twice for more pointed or obscure questions about the events leading up to and including the incident of the museum.
Official term, that. Incident.
But Arthur remained yet the smallest bit uncertain what his father thought about it all. Where he gave credit and where he placed blame, for instance.
When Uther reached them, he extended his hand with the same nonchalance that he carried the mug of tea – steaming, Arthur saw, so maybe they'd caught him just as off-guard, his trip to the kitchen coinciding with their arrival a genuine coincidence.
-To Merlin.
Arthur was too shocked to look away from his father's face – deeply weathered granite, like a bunker that had taken too many close hits – to check Merlin's expression for obvious astonishment, or distaste, or whatever.
"I understand your presence was essential to Arthur's success at the museum," Uther said, "and the final defeat of Camelot's primary terrorist threat."
Arthur's success. Damn. Spoken so significantly, and yet so casually, at once.
"Well," Merlin floundered, tentatively allowing Uther's grip of his hand. "Actually, I think that I-"
"And that you risked your life to do so," Uther continued.
"I wouldn't say risked-" Merlin tried.
Uther took no note of either interruption. "You have the gratitude of the nation that accepted your allegiance."
A single resolute pump of joined hands. Then Uther disengaged, turned and strode away. Arthur couldn't help the awareness that no thanks had actually been spoken. That was the best either of them was going to get, he suspected – but more than he'd expected.
"Thank you for saving my life, too," Merlin blurted to Arthur, his hand still hovering midair, as he stared at the door swinging closed behind Camelot's former First Minister.
"You mean just now?" Arthur said, not feeling like he had his feet underneath him yet either.
Merlin maybe hadn't heard him; he said distractedly, "Your father's psyche-structure, it-"
"I don't want to know," Arthur said immediately. Structure? not house? Probably a damn fortress. "Don't tell me."
"Yeah," Merlin said hastily, recovering himself. "Right."
"C'mon upstairs," Arthur said roughly. "You can throw your bag in a room before we go out back."
"Dinner is imminent," Merlin remarked, following, and it wasn't a question. "Do I get the same room?"
"Only if you promise to sleep in it," Arthur returned – and caught the edge of a small smile that told him, that humor was welcome, too.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
The sun was warm, the wind was cool, and Gwen's seat – a surprisingly-comfortable metal-mesh thing that rocked just enough and not too much – had been placed next to a raised-brick planter row where marigolds squatted budding cheerfully with all their might, so she could prop up the heel of the foot that still carried stitches. Three more days, but who's counting?
She was just far enough from the grill that she couldn't hear Leon and Percival's conversation unless they deliberately included her – they didn't need to – and just close enough that she didn't really have to raise her voice to gain their attention. And she didn't really need to; she'd gotten enough of the story about their arrival at the estate to know that they deserved a month of barbeque weekends.
No bullet holes in the plaster, though. No need for a trauma truck, either.
Morgana Pendragon was with them, but not with them. Seated on another brick planter, absent-mindedly beheading marigolds and gazing away – maybe, it was hard to tell behind her designer sunglasses – into the depths of the estate countryside. She was positioned to be able to watch Percival and Leon or Gwen comfortably, herself, and as time went on and Gwen's cocktail ice melted into dregs, the sun retreated to Morgana's advantage and Gwen's observation of Arthur's sister was increasingly difficult if she didn't want to blind herself or give away the fact of her scrutiny.
Still, she kept herself from jumping when the metal lawn-seat next to hers was scraped back without warning for Morgana's convenience in seating herself.
Arthur's sister had been distant and preoccupied, polite and noncommittal and hard to read. Gwen had never met her before and was reserving judgment, even knowing how well she knew Arthur, now, and reminding herself of the confusion and loss the other girl had suffered through maybe no fault of her own…
Uther was what Arthur might have become without love or friendship or his mother's genes. Morgana?
"Need another drink?" Morgana said to Gwen, her first words since how-d'you-do, and spoken more caustically than hospitably.
To take it personally or not to take it personally. Was Gwen being scrutinized as her brother's partner, or a potential girlfriend?... and what a simpering, simplistic word for what they were to each other. What they might become, given the chance they were definitely going to give each other someday soon.
"Not yet," she answered calmly. "Arthur makes a good margarita." Salt on the rim and a strawberry on a skewer.
Morgana's mouth twisted beneath a patrician nose made for looking down at others, and hidden eyes. "Margarita. Waiting for him to come back and make you another?"
More of a challenge in her tone, this time. So she'd definitely probably come to take Gwen's measure up close.
Gwen mentally and emotionally side-stepped accusation, and smiled to herself to remember Arthur's offer outside the trauma truck – care to have someone wait on you hand and foot – and then of course that other inadvertent suggestion they hadn't revisited, seriously or otherwise.
"I know that look," Morgana claimed sardonically. "You're not the only one, you know."
"The only one what?" Gwen said mildly, catching Leon's glance toward them. Percival was watching too; Leon made a gesture that essentially offered back-up if it was needed. Gwen signaled a negative response, without alerting Morgana.
"The only girl in love with Arthur," Morgana said, her tone exaggerating how ridiculous she found the idea. "Girls are always falling in love with Arthur."
Gwen had comprehended parts of Arthur's character with more clarity, coming here and meeting his family – how Arthur might have grown up second-guessing the sincerity of potential mates of either gender. She suddenly wondered how often Morgana had discovered that one of her own trusted friends pursued her acquaintance because she harbored a crush on the dashing brother rather than true loyalty for the sister's friendship.
And Morgana might have spent years wondering if Arthur was going to fall for one of them in return, and add to the Pendragon family – claims to the fortune – whether Morgana liked it or not.
Gwen said, still mildly, "I can see why."
Morgana snorted, tossing her head – and probably rolling her eyes behind the dark lenses.
And Gwen had the odd sensation of decisive permanence – that she was here to stay, with Arthur… part of the family. Maybe Morgana was having some abandonment issues – but Gwen could be her friend no matter what attitude she threw off, or whether that ever changed. And maybe it wasn't pride that made Gwen think, she would be far better for Arthur in a long-term relationship than any of the other girls who'd never been with him.
"You may not have noticed," she continued cheerfully, "but he's smart and funny and caring and dependable and protective and sexy as hell-"
Morgana's spine snapped straight and her mouth dropped open in a little bit of shock that Gwen intended.
"Talking of me?" Arthur said, from quite close behind them. "Or Merlin?"
Who was with him after all, Gwen saw when she turned, twisting in her seat while trying to keep her foot elevated on the edge of the brick planter.
"Of Leon, of course," Gwen countered Arthur's cheeky self-satisfaction, not caring if he knew the truth or if he knew that she didn't care that he knew.
For his part, Merlin might not have realized the topic of conversation or his potential inclusion at all. His eyes were fixed to Morgana – her head was turned away, though her posture was stiff.
Oh, yes. Right. Gwen had been given bare-bones explanation for this part of this complication, but she knew Merlin. The shy uncertain manner with which he'd declined the mess-hall invitations to join her and her friends. The worrying blankness that enshrouded him after Janada. The way he turned toward Freya Douglas like a bud toward sunlight – and the reasons Gwen intuited for why Freya wasn't with him this weekend; the nature of her psychic gift and the strain she'd been under, making it relatively likely that things might be said, this weekend. Yeah, better not.
"Pitcher of margaritas?" Arthur suggested, sweeping right past all of that. "Or beers, maybe?"
"Oi!" Percival hollered from the grill, raising tongs to signal to Arthur that his presence was needed.
"Morgana, you might think about setting tableware," Arthur said, turning and heading toward the grill.
Moving easily, after his fall at the museum. He downplayed, of course, when she asked, but observation said the damage wasn't as bad as after Urhavi.
"They're your company!" Morgana snapped, resettling herself in the chair, and Gwen wasn't sure if the meal was supposed to include her – or Uther, for that matter. Maybe it was to be only the five of them, after all. Relaxing like salsa and wings at the Sunrise in Fuller's Point.
Arthur didn't act like he heard or cared, and a cloud of smoke billowed from the grill when Leon raised the hood.
Merlin took a third metal-mesh chair by the rocking back and dragged it out, the feet scraping over decorative flagstones underfoot. As he folded himself into the seat, he gave her a glance that included her elevated foot – You okay?
She shifted position slightly to convey, It's boringly sore don't ask, how are you?
Instead of engaging her in awkward chit-chat, he turned to face Morgana and said, astonishingly, "They used to drug me where I grew up. The Essetirian Institute."
Morgana didn't move. Gwen thought maybe she should leave, but Merlin reached to cover her hand with his, just the way she'd sat with him in the Ten-Via as they sailed Mediterranean waters and he drifted.
"Sometimes to control me. Sometimes… I don't know, as an experiment." He paused, fully in control, completely relaxed, achingly vulnerable – and strong for it. "Some days felt like a nightmare I kept expecting to wake up from. The actual nightmares were very similar. Some days I forgot my name. A lot of the time I wasn't sure who the hell I was, anymore. And I rarely thought about, if I'd be allowed to decide, who I wanted to be."
Morgana turned slowly to face him in silence, expression obscured by the reflective lenses of her sunglasses.
"Someday," he added softly. "When I was free."
Gwen wondered if she should wish that she could see Morgana's eyes, and shivered involuntarily.
"It takes time," Merlin concluded. To Gwen it sounded like absolution, though Morgana hadn't apologized and maybe needed to and maybe didn't and maybe would try later when there wasn't an audience. "But you're a Pendragon… there's gotta be some stubbornness in there somewhere, right?"
Gwen bit her lips shut.
Morgana's mouth twitched. Then she said, "Excuse me…" Rose, and sauntered away.
Gwen almost said, Is she coming back. But she was still biting her lips shut against an inappropriate giggle – who knew Merlin could be audacious? Maybe he shouldn't be encouraged. Maybe it was Freya's influence… or Gwaine. Or Arthur.
"Well," he said to her, and didn't need to elaborate.
Yeah, I know. All the heartache, all the changes, the resolution of Tosoldat and the Isyad that the entire CPO heaved a comprehensive sigh of relief over, celebrated with brief respite, then collected and returned itself to work.
"Turn the page," Gwen said.
"Michael Finnegan," Merlin responded obscurely, relaxing back in his chair.
"What?" Gwen said, even as distant early memories tugged – a mother's silliness with a small child when all was right with the world.
Merlin's grin gleamed. "Begin again."
AN: So there will be one more chapter. I want to organize some scenes portraying how future missions might have gone, for this group… and I really wanted to tie back in to the scene that began this whole project, however long ago. We'll see how that goes… and in the meantime, thanks for taking this epic journey with me, I really appreciate the patience and support of all my readers!